The Loss of Birth

The museum of distorted knick-knacks and man’s ego.

               I feel no angels here, or the shaper God, but she has called me.

               Mother, made real in plastic, standing among lilies

               With her mute and long resigned husband.

              

               Mother Eve, with the dark, silken hair,

               And quiet sadness on her face, the magnitude

               Of the loss of birth, with the lilies that are

               Her handmaidens and confessors.

 

               She is still but alive in man made things,

               And she whispers to me that death, or a dream

               Or a painful rebirth will come, that maybe

               It can be made whole again.

 

               I listen to her, still in plastic, still but life,

               And hear her sing a tender song for me,

               That reminds me of my own place in Eden,

               And my own expulsion from it.

 

               The others, more arrogantly devout, shuffle past

               And give me side long looks, whisper darkly.

               But I only here Mother Eve, and the prophecies

               She fortells and the dreams she has for me.

 

               The still plastic mannequin that contains Her soul,

               And I know only peace her, hearing her sing,

               Hearing her tell the story, and how The Apple

               Made it all real by burning it to the ground.

 

               And then I go, ashamed, knowing what she thinks

               Her sons. Ashamed, knowing how I let her down,

               But hopeful, for she still loves me, and once again

               I will walk with her in The Garden.

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